the beholder
by yikes-strikes-again
Summary: Jim can't sleep, so he seeks out a quiet moment alone. But there is someone who belongs at his side.


The Enterprise hummed peacefully, her million circuits and wires generating background noise that seemed to soften during ship's night. It was as if she purposefully lowered her voice, turned song to lullaby, so as not to disturb her crew.

Despite the late hour, Jim found himself meandering through the corridors, restless despite his exhaustion. The dimmed lights eased his eyes, but the deepening shadows did nothing to calm his soul.

It had been a long day.

The turbolift doors slid open to reveal deck six, which was a little busier than the level above. As Jim walked and walked with only a vague idea of where he was going, several passing officers acknowledged him with a "sir" or "Captain." He nodded at them, his mind still elsewhere. He did not envy gamma shift tonight.

At last, Jim found himself headed towards the door to sickbay. No doubt they would have a cure for his insomnia. He couldn't count the number of times he'd stopped by in the middle of the night, pumped full of adrenaline that wouldn't leave him, or unable to stop replaying the day behind his eyelids, for a sleep aid and a little company. Over the years, it had become… a place of comfort, rather than pain, as it was for some.

However, before his footsteps could activate the motion sensors, he stopped. It occurred to him that he was not the only crewmember kept awake by the day's events; in spite of the fact that there were a scant number of personnel scheduled this shift, Jim knew that the majority of the medical staff, including one of his closest friends, were still on duty, compiling autopsy reports.

He walked past sickbay, not wishing to disturb their work.

Jim pressed on towards an unknown destination, heedless of sore limbs or heavy eyelids. He knew he would most likely end up back in his quarters, as sleepless as before, having accomplished nothing save for draining himself further. Or perhaps he would eventually fall asleep, in the holo-program of a rec room, surrounded by images of smooth sand and rolling waves. He decided to save himself the embarrassment of discovery.

Before he could reach the turbolift at the other end of the deck, Jim paused his stride before a door on the corner of a four-way intersection, nearly stumbling into an ensign in doing so. He didn't need to read the label to know that it led to the Life Sciences department.

Jim had an idea.

* * *

Botany lab three was quite different at night. Overpowering fragrances still mingled in the air, but with the lights set to just five percent, the normally vibrant hues of alien flora were eclipsed in a dreamlike gray; razor-sharp leaves cast dramatic shadows while miniature trees left huge, dark silhouettes. It was a strange kind of beauty - well, stranger than normal.

The dimness was a weight on his mood, but it was no heavier than his conscience at the moment. Besides, there was even something… truthful, he supposed, about standing alone in the dark, rather than shying away from it, hiding in the light while his mind remained consumed in shadow. It had felt ingenuous to pretend that everything was fine. Jim deserved that comfortable facade less than anyone.

It wasn't all doom and gloom, however - if he had only wished to brood, he would have gone straight back to his quarters. A deciding factor in his decision to come here was the large window that made up the entirety of the starboard wall. There were only a few as broad as it in the whole saucer section, and even less on the secondary hull, being for little purpose other than aesthetics. But Jim liked them. The stars provided a surprising amount of natural light - half the room was bathed in silver, stealing what little color the shadows had spared. It was a gentle light, understanding, somehow, yet cold. Indifferent, unlike the ship's warm-toned, artificial lights, blinding in their indulgence. The stars weren't like that. It was as if they could see him for all he was, but passed no judgement, simply shining on what they would regardless of anything he could do. Much like the universe.

It was refreshing, in a way, to be amongst things that did not excuse him or pander to him, but simply took him for what he was. He stepped forth, looking beyond his reflection, and pressed his fingers to the glass.

Could things have gone differently, today, if he had only the foresight? If he was stronger, smarter, a better leader, would his people still be alive? Or was he simply putting himself through the wringer of his own mind to no logical end?

No. Even if there was nothing more he could have done, it was dangerous to reach that conclusion on no evidence. He was the captain of the Federation flagship. He always needed to strive for better: no casualties, no losses. He was James T. Kirk; he didn't believe in no-win scenarios.

Jim sighed, a fragmented world crumbling at his shoulders. Those tiny pinpricks of light, massive in reality, could do nothing for him tonight. Even though each represented their own microcosm of the universe, together forming the blanket of the cosmos, on their own, they were so small,barely a flicker in the whole of spacetime. How could he, how could the Enterprise crew , feel at all assured in their own significance when even the foundations of their exploration were rendered nearly meaningless in the grand scheme of things?

Perhaps there was a reason, some justification for the stolen lives of those people. But staring out into that alien void, Jim couldn't see one. He was hollowed out, possessing nothing but guilt and the empty starlight in his hands.

The sound of a door sliding open roused him to the present. Sounds of footsteps followed - it was a science division member, most certainly, come to check on their yield. Jim silently ducked into a section of the lab isolated by a wall and several potted trees; he desired solitude and privacy in the dubious refuge of his own mind. Discovery would mean sharing his thoughts with another. He wasn't prepared for that.

This individual was even quieter than he. There was no voice, no shifting of clothing, no sound at all save for the soft tap of boot-heels on flooring. Their walk seemed to take them around the perimeter of the room; Jim held his breath as they came near the foliage around his hiding spot, but just as quickly, they withdrew to the opposite wall. What nocturnal plant were they attending to? Had they lost sight of it in the dark?

He peeked from between the coiling alien leaves to get a better look at the intruder. They were shrouded in the unlit areas of the lab, slinking between the aisles at a gradually slowing pace. Jim's eyes, grown used to darkness, picked out their slender silhouette easily from the shadows.

After the last plant had been inspected, at the far end of the room, the individual stopped. They turned, with a palpable resignation, to the window Jim had come to visit, stepped into the light -

\- and Jim's breath caught at the sight of Spock.

Spock's head turned sharply towards the alcove - those sensitive Vulcan ears of his must've detected his gasp. Jim cursed internally. He maneuvered out of view once again, and could only focus on a dark wall as Spock's graceful footsteps drew closer.

Just as he was sure he would be discovered hiding in the dark like a child, the steps halted. Evidently, something else had caught Spock's attention. Jim pivoted on his heels, slow and silent as death, and peeked with one eye to see exactly what.

Spock was mere feet from his position, but had paused mid-stride, head angled to his right at a spot at the window.

Jim's fingerprints.

He visibly relaxed, breathed a silent exhale, and approached the window with a near reverence. Jim watched Spock bring his hand to the spot where Jim had marked it, and began to forget that he was watching Spock, or even that he existed at all.

The starlight had softened the vibrance of Spock's science blue, reducing it to a periwinkle color. Dramatic shadows emphasized the curves of his cheekbone and jawline, and the half of him not encased in darkness was crowned in silver. The tall form, while rigid and unwavering, was not immovable or inflexible, but rather solid and secure. Comfortable, in a way that spoke to the deepest part of Jim that wished for love and protection. Spock's right arm, extended, touched where Jim had touched, with an impossibly gentle hand, while the left was locked behind him, a closed fist, a closed gesture. But Jim knew, from instinct as much as experience, that if he were to take that hand in his, he would not even have to coax it open.

The moment survived a little longer. Spock's head lowered, minutely but perceptibly, mind no doubt consumed in pensive and and logical reflection. Jim didn't always know what he was thinking about, particularly in these moments, but he could never take his eyes off of him regardless. Spock's mind, like the plants in this room, was beautiful in that exquisite, alien way, familiar and not. It was of a beauty that could not be commodified due to its rarity and fullness, its independence and mystery. They could talk for a hundred years, or a hundred centuries; Jim would never have explored that mind enough to be satisfied.

He had kept so quiet, timing his breathing with Spock's, every muscle in his body kept perfectly still. No sensation touched his nerves, no fresh smell graced his nostrils, no sound existed save for the hum of the ship. Jim's conscious impressions were restricted to the man in front of him. It took hardly any effort on his part to lose himself in that, to fade into nothing at all. He was made of starlight, to be the light in Spock's eyes; he was made of shadows, to shield him from harsh day; he was the air that filled Spock's lungs, the electricity that brought his senses to life.

Jim wondered if what he felt was love. He had been in love many times, and each time was different. The affection he felt for Spock was not unlike extraordinary friendship, but there was a heat, a restlessness that often characterized romantic attraction. It wasn't always an intense, consuming feeling, as flaming infatuation, nor was it a slow burn that ached and grew steadily over time. Rather, it fluctuated, came in waves; on nights like tonight, the tide was high, while on others, he could almost pretend there was nothing special about it. But it was special, unmistakably, undeniably special.

Maybe Jim did love him, and he had it as bad as it could get.

If it was true, if he loved Spock as he did Ruth, as Edith, then perhaps he had erred in choosing to fall in love with a Vulcan. Even if his feelings were reciprocated, Spock's heritage would never permit him to act on it. It was becoming increasingly clear that his desires, whatever they may be, were doomed to smolder and suffocate in the void of unspoken promises. The idea sent an arrow of icy despair through Jim's heart, but it was not as though he could help his proclivity towards loving things more beautiful than himself.

As Jim considered Spock, veiled in moon and stars, perfect in form and function, he recognized that, in a certain sense, one only existed in the eye of a beholder, and that the image of oneself appeared different from person to person. Who was the nobler, Spock for being noble, or Jim for perceiving him that way? Could he be merely watching through a film of blind admiration? If so, why?

Spock the Vulcan. Spock the human. Spock who loved Earth poetry and three-dimensional chess. Spock who would have died to save his former captain from a life of misery. Spock who had shamed his honor and his heritage in an attempt to save Jim. Spock, whose grace and intelligence and ruthless loyalty were spent at his side, and who would have it no other way. All separate images, each a fragment that Jim had painstakingly arranged into a personal and emotional truth.

It didn't matter who Spock was to anyone else - to Jim, he was everything.

Spock broke out of his trance, and so too did Jim. He took his delicate fingers from the glass and swept his gaze to the left, right where Jim was standing - but Spock failed to see him. Jim found himself staring into his eyes, dark and magnetic and oddly expressive, and his heartbeat tripped over itself. He was forced to step backwards - to reorient himself, to regain balance - with far too much force. Jim cringed at the echoing noise it made.

"Captain?"

And just like that, he materialized, emerged into being from the perception of another. Jim was in his own body again, seen, heard, felt, when all he wanted was to be nothing. For when one was nothing, one never needed to be concerned with worldly events - or embarrassed of worldly desires.

It was strange, he supposed, how having one's thoughts interrupted could cause one to become ashamed of them, as if the other person could read minds. But this was precisely what Jim experienced as Spock approached the barrier he had created for himself. It certainly didn't help that Spock could actually read minds, touch being required notwithstanding. What would he say to these all-too-human feelings of his? How could his logical mind allow him to respond? Would he consider it a perversion of their working relationship, a breach upon the sanctity of their friendship? Most likely, a synthesis of both.

In the time it had taken for him to swallow his irrational feelings of shame, Spock had come to stand in the opening of the alcove. The shadows were too deep here for Jim to make out the details of his face, but from his head's angle, he could assume that Spock was looking directly at him.

"Captain," he repeated, softer than the first instance, voice almost lowered to a whisper. "May I speak with you a moment?"

Jim nodded, still unprepared for words of his own, and ducks out of his hiding spot. It strikes him that, above all else, he expected Spock to call him "Jim." Or perhaps… it was more of a wanting than an expecting. For you see, "Captain" was his command, his duty. "Captain" was "yes sir, right away sir." "Captain" was not midnight trips to starlit biolabs among foreign fragrances and soothing ambiance. "Captain" was not long moments gazing at his truest friend while cloaked among shadows. No, that was all Jim, and he had expected - wanted Spock to see that, too. But he was only "Jim" in the direst of straits. On a peaceful night, he was merely "Captain."

No one is his own to behold, he supposed.

"Can't sleep, Spock?" Jim quirked up one corner of his mouth in an approximation of a playful grin, but if he couldn't convince himself that it was genuine, Spock wouldn't be persuaded, either.

"Negative. I desired to converse with you regarding the day's events, but you did not arrive in the mess hall this evening. I had… hoped to find you here."

Jim raised his eyebrows. That would explain Spock's odd path around the lab - he wasn't here for the plants at all, but for him. The notion gave birth to a ticklish feeling of warmth in his stomach.

"This late?"

The question caused Spock to shift awkwardly, as if searching for an appropriate explanation. It was, for lack of a better term, adorable. "... Regrettably, my meditation cycle has been… disturbed tonight." Jim's face fell; obviously, he could relate. "After a considerable amount of time spent failing to rectify it, I determined that the most logical course of action would be to speak to you, assuming you were awake. The computer stated that you were in botany lab three."

Jim's mouth fell open in an "ah" gesture. His mind flickered back to the previous day; he had fled from it, then confronted it, only to despair, and was now fleeing from it again. He didn't want to think about it any more than was necessary, but who was he to deny Spock?

He took a deep breath. "Well, I suppose we're both having trouble sleeping. What was it you wanted to talk about?" He looked at Spock and smiled. In spite of that sinking feeling, it was never difficult to smile at Spock.

Spock hesitated again, but this time, he seemed genuinely unsure of himself. Jim was more than willing to allow him all the time he needed to collect his thoughts.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Captain… a starship depends on her captain's ability to evaluate a given situation and judge the appropriate course of action. Without this, she and her crew are doomed."

His heart lay at his feet. Was he about to receive a dressing-down from his first officer about something he already felt indescribably guilty over? Was the urge to remind him of it the demon had kept Spock up all night? He was not alone in that, sure, but it was still a stab to the gut. "Spock... " he said under his breath, hoping he didn't sound too pleading.

"However," Spock continued, "there are many factors which lie beyond any one individual's control. The captain is never exempt from this law… It is the nature of humans, Vulcans, and all lifeforms."

Oh. Well, then. Jim could see where this was going. If Spock thought he could placate the darkness in him with a rehearsed speech about the inevitable, he would be surprised. Jim looked away into the far corners of the room, trying to think about how to best refute his argument. It was… kind of Spock, to do this, but a regrettable waste of breath.

Spock continued, heedless of him. "That same starship, which depends on her captain's judgement, also depends on his confidence, his resolve, and the morale he provides his crew thus. The losses we have sustained today are not the result of any failure on your part; rather, they are merely reflective of that which we have no power to change."

Jim's face was in shadow; there was some truth to his words, but it would do no good to acknowledge it. "Are you saying those people weredestined to die, Mr. Spock?"

Spock was rendered speechless for a moment. Where Jim should have felt pleasure he only felt more guilt.

"Captain… It was not my intention to imply - " Jim raised a hand to silence him.

He softened his next words to temper the edge of his previous ones. "Of course it wasn't."

Spock had nothing else to say. Jim found it hard to look at him now, and so didn't, keeping his eyes to the floor as he sauntered into the light. He raised his eyes to the infinite starfield.

There was no point in avoiding his own thoughts. Perhaps what he needed was to voice them, even if it was only to himself. Below a whisper, below even the hum of the ship, he began to say, "If I hadn't given the order to - "

But Vulcan ears were hyper-sensitive.

"Jim!" Spock exclaimed, no louder than he had been, but it was a roar over the silence. He was at his side in an instant, hand pressing against the fabric of his tunic at the right shoulder. Jim stared at their point of contact, then at his face, suddenly assaulted with a rush of emotion. Jim. Spock had called him Jim.

He seemed taken aback by his own actions. Spock quickly withdrew his hand, eyes fixed on it, as if it had just demonstrated the power to kill. Then he locked it behind his back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

His voice was lowered to a volume matching Jim's. "Your insistence on punishing yourself for unavoidable circumstances is affecting you negatively. It is not logical."

Jim turned to face him fully, looking into his eyes. In them, he could see that he was honestly trying to help. He could trust Spock to do that, couldn't he? Jim knew on the deepest level that Spock wouldn't lie to him, or allow him to think dangerously.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself, and that it was causing him to be hard on Spock as well. Jim couldn't have that.

He exhaled audibly. "You're probably right, Spock."

Spock's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and Jim could tell he was relieved. "My assessments are almost never in error, Captain."

He smiled fondly. "Yes, that's true. Couldn't ask for a better first officer."

Another pause, this time without tension. Jim used the opportunity to step closer to Spock, not close enough to be awkward, but enough so that he only needed to lean forward for their heads to touch. Spock didn't move a muscle, standing as tall as ever, looking down on him with a combination of curiosity and warmth.

Jim's lips quirked in a half-smile before his gaze traveled away from Spock's face and to his waist, to the hands clasped behind his back. His mind swam with possibilities.

Spock cared about him. That much was obvious, just from the way he had come to try and convince him he wasn't at fault for those deaths. Perhaps the way he had touched him, despite his Vulcan-ness, and how he was accepting their close proximity… meant that a move on Jim's part wouldn't be as badly received as he'd thought.

He raised a hand to Spock's elbow. Spock watched it passively, and said nothing as his fingers made gentle contact. As Jim trailed his touch down his forearm, reaching behind him, Spock took it, as he'd hoped, from behind his back. Jim looked to his face as his hand met the end of his sleeve. His eyebrows were raised, indicating surprise, but his eyes… there was no uncertainty in those eyes.

Jim felt his own hand close around Spock's. His skin was warm to the touch. Jim opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, he realized something had changed in Spock's expression. His eyes, which had seemed so clear just now, were unfocused, clouded with something erratic.

Under his touch, Spock actually shuddered.

What had he done?

Jim didn't protest when Spock stole his hand back. Both of them stepped away, their eyes averted. The shame crept in again, uninhibited because Jim knew he deserved it.

Spock ended up being the one who could bring himself to speak. "Jim - " He stopped and cleared his throat. "Captain, I… I must return to my quarters."

He glanced up from the floor one last time, seeing that a green flush had taken over his features. When Jim said nothing, he turned stiffly and walked away.

"Goodnight, Spock," he muttered to no one, already feeling the dejection set in.

Spock was already halfway to the door, but paused, looking over his shoulder with what could be called shyness. Wonderful - his first officer was going to act awkwardly around him now.

"...Good night."

The doors slid open and shut, and then Jim was alone again.

He had sought after solitude in the first place; it was ironic, therefore, that he should be so displeased by it now. Spock's presence had been an unexpected blessing - one that Jim hadn't wanted at first, but that he had desperately needed. As if he, or the universe, had read his mind. But then, Jim had ruined it -

His brain came to a halt. Read his mind. Vulcans were touch telepaths - they required skin-to-skin contact for their abilities to have any effect. When he held Spock's hand in his, all his thoughts and emotions at the time must have bled through like an open wound. All his affection, desires,love -

He sucked in a cold breath. Spock had felt it all. He had seen himself as he existed in Jim's mind, and how had he reacted?

He had ran .

God. What had he done?

Jim's embarrassment grew twice in size once he remembered, from Spock's parents, that Vulcans kiss with their hands . He ran a hand through his hair. Jim had basically just assaulted Spock, who, from his perspective, was just trying to prevent his captain from having a breakdown from guilt. His atrocious judgement had cost both of them their dignity and possibly their relationship, personal or working or otherwise.

The guilt from the previous day had been effectively replaced with the guilt of upsetting his friend, of destroying the boundaries between them. Jim ambled out of the lab, knowing that he wouldn't sleep until he figured out a way to apologize to Spock.


End file.
